


You're the Apple to my Pie

by Flower_Flame_Princess



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Apple Pie, Bucky is charming, Charming Bucky Barnes, M/M, Meet-Cute, Shy Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers blushes a lot, Steve Rogers is shy, supermarket meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flower_Flame_Princess/pseuds/Flower_Flame_Princess
Summary: Though Steve likes the new neighborhood, the giant supermarket sucks. He can't find anything! It's one big maze, and he just wants to find flour to make some apple pie. If only there was someone who could help him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 134





	You're the Apple to my Pie

How hard could it be to find a pack of flour in a supermarket that sold _everything?_

Pretty damn hard, apparently.

The supermarket was big. And with that he meant _really big_. The old little grocery store he used to go to for his groceries could have fit around three times in this place, perhaps even more! The store was like a maze, meant to lure him in and then keep him wondering around there forever, unable to find anything he needed, afraid he would never again see the light of day, but instead perish here while he lived on private-labeled chips and knock-off beer, crying in the corner of the bread section as he watched the other costumers roam around the store, still trying to find the exit knowing it was in vain.

And to make things worse, the giant supermarket had a certain system in the way they placed their products, and he could just not figure it out no matter how many times he walked around. There were sections, he got as much, but they did not have sections for everything and he had no idea in which section you could find flour. There was a vegetable section, a bread section, a dessert section, and a frozen foods section, he could figure out as much.

The frozen sections were placed against the walls in freezer compartments, where you could easily open a door and get what you wanted. It was pretty annoying to see people open the door of the compartments and _then_ choose what they wanted, instead of first choosing and _then_ grabbing, especially since there were notes stuck to the transparent doors that said ‘Pick first, grab later, thank you’. That was probably because some people just did not care, or were pretty stupid. Anyway, he had no need of going to the freezer section, as he was looking for specific things that did not need to be cooled.

With the list in his hand he wondered around the aisles, looking, staring, watching, gaze skimming the many products. In the previous store he knew exactly where everything was, but here, he had no idea where to look. Or even where to _begin_ looking. You could not just follow a certain path through the shop and pass everything there was, so you did not skip a part, there were just too many aisles and too many paths to take, and everyone was walking in different directions and there was no order whatsoever. It was freaking him out a little, and he looked around helplessly as he tried to find what he needed.

Of course, he _could_ ask an employee. But was the crippling shame and anxiety really worth getting what he needed right away? Or even worse, he would be asking one of the few youngsters walking around in colorful shirts with name tags and they _would not know_. They would tell him they only just worked here and did not know, or they would stare at him in confusion. They would think he was a freak and slowly back away from him as they called for backup. Or he would ask someone who was not even an employee, how could he know? What if the girl in the red and yellow shirt wasn’t an employee, but rather a costumer just looking for food like he was?

And he could try to ask the boy who was obviously an employee, packing out and storing products from a large box on a cart, but he seemed busy, not to be disturbed. That would be so horrible, trying to interrupt the poor teen while he was just doing his job because some random dude in jeans wanted to buy a box of flour… among other things. Asking an employee was not really an option, so instead he wondered around some more, with a shopping basket on his arm. He only had the apples he needed, and some sugar, but he could just not find the flour. He could find baking mixes that _contained_ flour, but he did not want any ready-made baking mixes, he wanted _flour_. He wanted flour, and cinnamon, nutmeg, and some other spices he had run out of.

At this rate, he would be here all night, but he just did not want to ask an employee. Somewhere, he hoped an employee would magically see him wondering out all helpless and come at him, helping him find what he needed like the nice old lady of the small grocery store in his previous neighborhood had done, but he knew that waiting for that would have absolutely no use, and he was better off to scan each and every aisle until he found it. The fear of the supermarket not having any flour snuck in, but he suppressed it, telling himself that a supermarket without flour was just ridiculous, and that it _had_ to be around here somewhere.

He re-entered the baking section, knowing almost certainly that flour had to be around there somewhere. Flour was used in baking, right? So why could he not find it? He took slow steps, eyes scanning up and down and up and down, his body turning and twisting to look at both sides of the aisles, and he nearly bumped into a young man wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, but could just evade him and mumble his apologies before going back to his search.

There was no flour in the baking section, again, and he was starting to get desperate. He looked at his list for what felt the millionth time, as though it could suddenly point him in the right direction or contain the coordinates of where they kept the flour. He tried looking for cinnamon and nutmeg then, as he needed that as well. He found some of the spices he was looking for, salt, pepper, nutmeg, but no cinnamon. Dammit.

After he had just moved from his previous place to a one more into the city, he was looking for some kind of gift for his neighbors. Happy neighbors made a happy neighborhood, and the ones living in the apartment next door seemed quite nice. He was also looking for the usual stuff to put in his kitchen cabinets, as he was not toting around boxes of spices and food. He had to use the last of it and throw the rest out, so now he was looking for some new. His new apartment was also way closer to the college where he studied art, so that was a nice plus. It was one of the main reasons why he moved, together with his old landlord asking way too much money for what was essentially an over-glorified shack crammed between more over-glorified shacks.

Having looked through nearly all aisles, he moved back to the baking aisle once more, hoping that somehow, he had overlooked the flour and it was just hidden in there somewhere. Perhaps he had looked with his nose and it was right in front of him, but he was just too stupid and dense to notice it. It probably was not, but he could still hope. He could hope it would magically appear out of nowhere and he could get out of this torture dungeon, but chances were small.

Perhaps he would have to leave with what he got, and then ask – or beg – Natasha to help him get the rest later. Natasha was good at finding things. Well. She was good at finding _people_ , especially. He did not know how she did it, but she could find that one cute person you saw once on Instagram or Facebook and determine whether or not they were a right pick. It was baffling.

"Can’t find what you’re looking for?" a voice asked suddenly.

Steve jumped, just slightly, unsure if the voice was talking to him or to someone else. He had made the mistake of answering a question that had not been meant for him before, and he could still feel the embarrassment curling like a lava snake in his stomach, clenching uncomfortably when he thought back of it, so he carefully turned his head to where the voice had come from, ready to turn back and act as though he was completely minding his own business if the voice, and the question, had not been meant for him. It was a brunet.

And a pretty one at that.

One with long strands of thick, brown hair that were tied back of his head loosely, a few wisps still hanging freely, allowed to tumble along his pretty face, cold blue eyes like glaciers that stared right at him. The brunet was wearing black jeans and a leather jacket, and was around his age, if not a little older, but only by a year or two max. Steve noticed the man had a thin layer of black eyeliner around his eyes, setting off a contrast that made the blue stand out more.

The eyes were focused on _him_ , and him alone. Steve looked around a little, but the only other people in the aisle, an old woman with short-cropped light hair, and a teenager with headphones bobbing his head to the music, were not at all interested in or even looking at them. That must mean that the man was talking to him, not to anyone else. Had it been a mistake? Did the brunet think he was someone else? Someone he knew? What should he say? The brunet cocked his head slightly, trying to find Steve’s eyes again and Steve let him. They were pretty eyes.

"W-what?" Steve asked, about ready to slap himself because he could not have come up with a better answer than that.

"This is the third time you pass through this aisle," the brunet said, gesturing around vaguely, "You need help finding what you’re looking for?"

A silence fell between them, and Steve could find himself get red in the face. He hated that he blushed so much, and he hated that it was so obvious. People always noticed, and though it was usually found endearing by others, he was really annoyed by it himself. He bit his lip, softly, looking around a second time before fumbling with the list in his hands.

"Can’t find the flour," he admitted, mumbling his words a little.

The brunet nodded, turning a little and looking around the shelves in an attempt to help. He was holding a shopping basket himself, but Steve could not see the contents. Then, to Steve’s absolute horror and embarrassment, as though walking around for nearly half an hour without finding anything had not been bad enough, the brunet pulled a box off the shelf, looked at it, and then held it out towards Steve. "Flour… like this?"

Heat surged through Steve’s cheeks, like flames lapped at them from the inside. They were kissed pink like a spring rose, the color blooming against his skin. He looked away and found a distraction at the list in his hands, fumbling with the paper that did nothing. He needed some time to compose himself, but the brunet was still holding up the box of flour and he _had_ to react. He _had_ to do something because now he was looking like an absolute idiot just saying nothing and looking at the piece of paper.

"Y-yeah," Steve mumbled, looking back up at the flour with a pained look in his eyes, one of betrayal. He could not believe the flour would do something like that to him. Trying to avoid looking the brunet in the eyes, Steve stepped forward and took the box of flour. Of course it was exactly what he needed, which made him even look more stupid as he held it in his hands, biting his lip to keep the shame from exploding.

He had to stop blushing, but he felt the warmth crawl to his face, adding red patches to his cheeks. He occupied himself with the box, turning it over as to pretend he was reading the back, to see if it was the right box while he already knew it was the right one, all in an attempt to keep himself from causing an even bigger scene. For a moment, it helped, and he dared looking up again at the other. He was cool. Everything was cool. This was fine, he could totally do this. Other people weren’t scary.

Then there was another smile, "You’re cute when you blush."

Damn it.

Steve’s blush seared through his cheeks and for a minute he thought his face was on fire. He suddenly felt awkward, demure, and coy; wanting to hide his face behind his hands, or the flour box. Yeah, he pretty much wanted to hide. His eyes shot down to the box again, desperate to find distraction. He ended up putting it in his basket, hands shaking just slightly. Part of him wanted to run away, pay for his stuff (or even just dump it in a corner and then run away), and leave the shop and order his groceries online for the rest of his life, but another part of him wanted to stay. Not necessarily in the shop, but with this young man.

Part of him wanted to stay with the guy in the skinny black jeans, the dark make-up, the long hair tied back, and the leather jacket. He wanted to stay with the guy who smiled so nicely, and helped him get what he needed. He doubted he would have found the flour on his own, and it was nice of this handsome man to help him, even though it had not been asked of him.

The other must have felt bad for him because there was a shift of weight and then the voice started talking again. "Ahw, hey, it’s alright," the brunet cooed, "I won’t bite. What else do you need?"

Steve looked up, "Uhm… just a few more things… but I can find it myself, I don’t want to bother you."

"It’s no problem," the brunet answered, "Really. Let me look at that."

The brunet took the list from his hands, and Steve was too frozen in place to answer. His lips were stuck, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and his throat dry as the brunet skimmed through his short list, quirking an eyebrow. "You making apple pie or something?"

Steve nodded, but said nothing.

"Cool. I know where the cinnamon is." The brunet motioned for Steve to follow him, just like that. And Steve being Steve, he could do nothing but follow closely.

"You bake?" the brunet asked then, as they walked into a different aisle.

"Sometimes," Steve answered, "Got the recipes from my ma, and make them once in a while. To remember her."

The brunet gave him a smile, a small one, a _sweet_ one. No amount of sugar could go up against that, or that may be the butterflies in his stomach talking.

With the brunet’s help, his list was taken care off in less than half the time Steve had spent trying to find flour, and he felt a little stupid for missing all the ingredients, but he felt somewhat proud of himself that he had gotten help. Though that was entirely on the young man who had spoken to him, offering help, and not on Steve for accepting it (or actually letting it happen because the brunet more of less hijacked his grocery run, not that Steve was complaining). Now he only had to work up the courage to ask the guy his number. Perhaps a name should come first, but a number was definitely in there somewhere.

How he wished he had Natasha’s, Sam’s, or even _Clint’s_ help doing this. He could not just ask for someone’s number, he was not charming or suave like that! He was a mumbling, bumbling mess, and he would only screw up. How even do you ask for someone’s number? Just plain and straight? What if the guy wasn’t into other boys? What if the guy already had a relationship? What if the guy thought he was ugly and didn’t want to give out his number? Steve could very well understand that, giving out your number to strangers was weird.

"So, you got a name, doll?" the brunet asked then, eyes sparkling along with his playful tone, and Steve did not want to admit that did more with him than it should.

"I- uhm, my name is Steven. Rogers. Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you." He was stumbling over his words, fingers still plucking at the sleeve of his shirt and he _couldn’t_ deal with the huge balloon still growing in his chest. It was too big, it was going to explode. Those big, icy eyes looked into his, so beautiful and so gentle, yet so sharp.

"James Barnes," the brunet said, "Nice to meet you too."

James Barnes. That was a name! Steve almost did a victory dance, even though it had been the brunet again to take initiative, and not Steve.

As they gathered the last few things, Steve still tried to work up the courage to ask for the cute boy’s number. He really did. It was now or never, because James still had his own shopping to do, and would not be able to hang around Steve all the time and he would leave and in a city as big as New York they would never find each other again, and everything would be wasted entirely. James had asked him for a name and all, did that mean he was interested? Even a teeny tiny bit? The littlest bit?

It was the last item, James showed him the registers, and gave him back his shopping list. With that, and nothing else, not even anything Steve had been playing out in his head, James said bye, and then walked away. Steve stood frozen in spot, torn between running after him and just cracking open the ground and disappearing in it. His chest felt too small for his heart and lungs, like a strap pulled tightly around him, and he could not breathe. James was disappearing into an aisle, and the longer Steve wanted the worse his fear for asking a number would get. He gripped the shopping list tightly, looking down at the crossed out words of the things he needed to get and saw–

A number.

Ten digits, lined up at the bottom of the list. A phone number. It was a phone number! Steve sucked in a breath, staring at the number without having any idea how to proceed. Call now? Call later? Put it in his phone? He was getting a tad lightheaded, though he did not mind all that much. He took out his phone and put the number in his contacts right away. Who knew what could happen on his way home? What if he lost the list? What if the wind snatched the paper from his hands? He could not risk that, so he saved it in his phone, and then went to stand in line.

When he came home, putting all the groceries on the kitchen table, weaving his way between moving boxes and all, he went to the number and decided to message it. A faint voice in the back of his head told him it could be a fake number, but why would James write down a fake number at the bottom of Steve’s shopping list when Steve had not asked him for anything? It was not like it was a last resort to get Steve to back off or anything, James had written it down all by himself. Because _he_ wanted to.

His heart beat in his throat as his fingers moved across the keyboard. He thought of a few messages, typed them, then deleted them again and tried something else, but that didn’t work either so he waited a moment, even Googling some times on the internet but he turned up empty because all the opening lines sucked, and then he had it.

 **_Steve_ ** _: Hey, it’s Steve from the supermarket. You want some homemade apple pie?_

Right after he hit send he wanted to jump off the top of his apartment building, crash his head against the wall, snap his phone in two, do anything to forget what just happened and just move on with his life, until his phone zoomed and he got a message back.

 **_James:_ ** _I’d love some :)_

Steve may have blacked out after that, but it was alright. The cute boy from the supermarket was going to eat his apple pie, and Steve had not been this happy in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Just really wanted to write this, seemed cute. Maybe I'll add more chapters later, depends on whether people like this or not. I may just leave it with this. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Peace out~


End file.
